


Indeed, I Cannot

by beenana



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: At Least Lydia's Sweet Though, F/M, Gen, High Schoolers Are Dicks, Public Humiliation, Restraining Orders, Season/Series 02, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-07 21:58:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6826177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beenana/pseuds/beenana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>By the time Stiles pushes the locker room door open and is smacked in the face with the overwhelming smell of nasty</i> boy<i>, he’s nearly dancing on the spot.  He’s been trying to use the bathroom since second period, but every time he attempted, Jackson was there.  Laughing.  And sneering.  And being evil.</i></p><p>Jackson takes advantage of his restraining order in the most annoying way possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indeed, I Cannot

**Author's Note:**

> I'm many years late to this fandom, but after watching season 2, I decided this story was practically begging to be written. So, sorry...? I guess. (But not really.)
> 
> Warnings: Just pee? Not in a kinky way...Jackson's just an asshole.
> 
> This can be read as pre-Stydia or just friends. It's up to you! 
> 
> I don't own Teen Wolf.

“Really, dude?” Stiles groans, pressing his face into the wooden door so hard it’ll be a miracle if there’s not an imprint when he moves away.  “This isn’t funny anymore.”  Then he pauses, turning the words over in his head.  “Actually, it wasn’t funny to begin with, but now it’s _definitely_ not funny.  It’s like… _negative_ funny.”

He nearly faceplants into Jackson’s muscular, reptilian chest when the door is wrenched open, but the universe must decide it’s not Stiles’ time to die because he just barely manages to catch himself on the doorframe before they can make contact.  “I happen to think it’s hilarious, Stilinski,” Jackson smirks, his eyes glinting with mirth and pure evil.  “Now get fifty feet away from me before I call the cops.”

With that, he turns around and slams the bathroom door in Stiles’ face.

His nostrils flaring in frustration and barely-controlled rage, Stiles hikes his backpack up onto his shoulders and marches stiffly down the hall until he reaches the boys’ locker room.  It’s the opposite direction of his next class and time is ticking, but desperate times call for desperate measures.  If Jackson is going to guard the bathroom all day like some sadistic idiot, Stiles will just have to take the tardy…because he has to pee and he has to pee _now_. 

By the time he pushes the locker room door open and is smacked in the face with the overwhelming smell of nasty _boy_ , he’s nearly dancing on the spot.  He’s been trying to use the bathroom since second period, but every time he attempted, Jackson was there.  Laughing.  And sneering.  And being _evil_.

So now it’s two o’clock and they only have one class left and Stiles feels like he might literally die if he doesn’t go pee in the next three seconds.  Ignoring the stares of the half-naked students, Stiles makes a beeline for the stalls where they’re tucked away next to the showers.  He drops his backpack carelessly behind him, so focused on the matter at hand that he hardly registers his textbooks falling out and sliding across the damp floor.  He’ll deal with them later.

Just as he’s about to dive crotch-first into one of the stalls, a voice rings out behind him, amused and taunting.  “Stilinski!” it says.  “What part of fifty feet don’t you understand?”

Stiles almost bursts into tears. 

“Leave me alone!” he cries, whirling around to face Jackson, his hands curled into tight fists.  He was trying for threatening, but under the circumstances, all he could manage was a pathetic whine.  “Just go away!”

“I don’t really think you’re in a position to be ordering me around,” Jackson says, his eyes trailing down Stiles’ trembling body.  Stiles folds his arms across his chest, feeling exposed and humiliated.  “Besides the fact that you’re going to piss yourself like a preschooler, you’ve also managed to get your incompetent _idiot_ of a father fired.  Thanks to _my_ father.  So I don’t think you want to break the rules of this restraining order, do you?”

The only thing that keeps Stiles from swinging at him is the knowledge that if he makes any sudden movements, he’s going to lose it and wet his pants.  He sighs wearily instead.  “You’ve already ruined my life, Jackson…I’m not going to let you have this one,” Stiles tells him, turning back toward the stall.  “I’m not going to play your game anymore, okay?  I’m going to use the bathroom and then I’m going to get to class.”

“I don’t think so,” Jackson growls, his voice shaking with rage as he grabs ahold of Stiles’ shoulder and yanks him back.  Stiles squeaks in surprise, every muscle in his body going rigid as he struggles to hold it all in.  Then he cringes and squeezes his eyes shut because Jackson shouts at the top of his lungs, “Coach!  Stilinski is bothering me again!”

Coach Finstock materializes out of his office like a fine mist.  One moment he’s nowhere to be seen and the next, he’s standing right in front of them.  “Stilinski!” he exclaims, clenching his whistle between his teeth and crouching down to blow one long blast mere inches from Stiles’ face.  “What is the meaning of this?”

“I just need to—”

“I don’t wanna hear a word out of you!” Finstock cuts him off, his brow furrowed.

Despite the nearly excruciating pain stabbing at his abdomen, Stiles is affronted.  “But you just _asked_ —”

“Not one word!” Coach repeats, smacking his hand against the wall and making Stiles jump.  “You think you’re above the law just because your dad was the Sheriff?  What, am _I_ above the law because I’ve watched every single episode of CSI?  No, Stilinski, I am _not_!  Because life doesn’t work that way.  Whittemore has a _restraining order_...now restrain yourself before _I_ restrain you!”

He punctuates the statement with another screech of his whistle before taking them by the shoulders and marching them all the way to their next class.

It’s chemistry _._ With _Harris_.  And they’re three minutes late.

At that moment, being late to chemistry is just about the only thing that scares Stiles more than peeing his pants at school.  With his luck, both he and Jackson will end up in detention together and he’ll be forced to sit fifty feet away from him until the clock strikes four or Stiles dies from bladder explosion, whichever comes first.

“Ah, Mr. Stilinski!  Mr. Whittemore!  Nice of you to join us.”  Harris’ smile is dangerous and promises nothing but pain.  “I hope my class hasn’t interrupted anything _important_.”

It has, in fact, interrupted something absolutely _vital_ , but for once Stiles manages to keep his mouth shut.  “No, sir,” he mumbles, practically limping to his seat next to Scott in the back of the room. 

Sliding into his desk is pure agony and Stiles can’t help the way his breath hitches.  Scott is immediately on high-alert, looking over at him with wide eyes.  “Are you okay, dude?” he whispers, alarmed.  “Are you hurt?”

He can feel the heat rising on his neck and spreading up to his cheeks.  As a general rule, Stiles doesn’t get embarrassed, but this?  This is _mortifying_.  “Nah, I’m fine,” he says, not even caring that Scott will be able to hear his lie.  Anything is better than telling the truth.

“No, you’re not,” Scott disagrees, looking at him disapprovingly.  Then he honest-to-god _sniffs_.  Like an actual dog.  Whatever he gets a whiff of must smell awful, because he wrinkles his nose in disgust before a look of recognition flickers across his face and he leans just the slightest bit closer.  “You have to piss?”

Unfortunately, the floor doesn’t open and swallow Stiles whole, so he nods in humiliation and tries not to think about Isaac and Erica in the front of the class.  If Scott can smell it, they can too.  Honestly, why didn’t the kanima kill him when it had the chance?

“Jackson’s really been taking advantage of the fifty feet thing today,” Stiles whispers by way of explanation and Scott’s face crumples compassionately.  It’s the first time all day someone’s been sympathetic about Stiles’ ordeal and it feels like a drink of cool water.

He presses his thighs together.  Okay, maybe not _water_.  But it feels nice, all the same.

“Mr. Stilinski!”  At the annoyingly familiar call of his name, Stiles snaps to attention.  “First you arrive late, then you waste my valuable time talking to Mr. McCall…you must really not want to pass this class.”

Too worn out and on-edge to think of a witty comeback, Stiles just nods frantically and sits forward in his chair, trying to take some of the pressure off his bladder.  “Yes, I really do!” he pleads, his hands shaking where they’re clasped in his lap.  “I promise.”

“Then perhaps you can tell me what you so _urgently_ need to discuss back there?”

If Stiles weren’t on the edge of death, he might have laughed at his teacher’s word choice.  But as it is, his stomach hurts so badly he can feel tears pricking at his eyes.  Knowing he won’t be able to hold it much longer, he grits his teeth against the embarrassment and mumbles out, “May I go to the bathroom, please?”

A wave of giggles goes through the room.  He does his best to ignore it.

“I’m sorry…I didn’t hear that,” Harris declares with an amused lilt to his voice that says he did and just wants to mess with Stiles.  “Could you speak up?”

Stiles’ face is _glowing_ , he’s so mortified.  “Can I _please_ go to the bathroom?” he nearly shouts, refusing to get caught up in a back-and-forth.  Now there’s all-out laughter echoing around the classroom.  Scott and Allison are sending their classmates dirty looks and it’s a small comfort, even though Stiles can’t really think about it right now.  “I’ll be quick!”

“I think someone that is late to my class must have had _plenty_ of time to empty their bladder,” Harris says, deadly serious.  “You’ll wait until the bell rings.”

At his words, ice cold fear runs down Stiles’ back.  He’s going to wet his pants.  He’s sixteen years old and he’s literally going to _wet his pants_ because of some overgrown lizard.

He doesn’t even realize he’s panicking until Scott sets a comforting hand on his arm.  “You can do it, man,” he offers and even though it’s one of the most ridiculous situations they’ve ever been in, Stiles can tell that he’s being completely sincere.  “You can make it forty minutes.”

Stiles isn’t so sure he can make it forty _seconds_ , but Scott’s confidence is calming and Stiles nods mutely, jamming a pencil into his mouth to give himself something else to focus on.  He chews on it intensely while Harris’ words float over his head like fluffy clouds of equations and atoms and elements, too muffled to really register in his consciousness.  

The pencil cracks at the same time Stiles does.

One second Stiles has a mouthful of broken wood and graphite, and the next he’s peeing down his leg, too full to hold back anymore.  He can’t help it – he makes a noise of distress and grabs at his crotch, willing it to stop.  By some miracle, it does, but he knows it won’t last long.  He needs to get to the bathroom.  _Now_.

Next to him, Scott is staring in shock.  When he sees the single tear Stiles just can’t keep back, he snaps out of it and grabs Stiles by the wrist.  “Just go, dude!” he cries in a whisper.  “He has to let you…it’s a school rule!”

That does it.  Harris and his laughing classmates be damned, Stiles scrambles to his feet, gasping when his bladder lets go enough to make a wet spot on the leg of his jeans.  He zeroes in on the classroom door, letting everything else around him fade away as he races up the aisle and past his teacher, ignoring Harris’ complaints.  He can fail chemistry for all he cares…at this moment, the only thing he can worry about is not completely soaking himself in front of the entire student body.

He tries so hard, so _valiantly_ , to control himself, but by the time he gets to the boys’ bathroom, even his socks and shoes are wet.  There’s really no point, but he still scuttles into the bathroom and finishes up in the toilet, refusing to completely degrade himself.  Once he’s done, he hangs his head in defeat.  All that and he doesn’t even feel better.  His bladder hurts from holding it so long, his clothes are starting to itch, and, to make matters worse, he started crying at some point and now he can’t figure out how to stop.

Swallowing hard, he makes his way over to the sinks and washes his hands, useless though it may be.  He takes even breaths, pulling in deep and letting it out slowly until the tears finally subside.  His eyes are still ringed with red, but he figures it’s understandable considering the fact that all his friends probably hate him now.

When the final bell rings, releasing everyone from the hell that is Beacon Hills High School, Stiles groans in defeat.  Unless he wants to take up residence in the tiny, frankly _disgusting_ boys’ bathroom, he’s going to have to face the music.  Wrinkling his nose at the way his wet jeans rub against his skin, Stiles takes a deep, fortifying breath and pushes his way through the door.

And, as is his luck, he walks straight into Lydia Martin.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” he yelps, jumping backwards to avoid bumping into her.  “I’m sorry…did I get you all dirty?  Shit, I did, didn’t I?  Let me just—”

She grabs his hands where they’re scrambling at her dress, trying in vain to wipe her clean.  “Stiles,” she says firmly, looking him in the eyes.  He gulps, letting his hands fall to his sides, feeling like a little kid.  “You didn’t even touch me…it’s fine.”

Her gaze drops to his wet jeans and Stiles wants to curl up and die.  He knows he can be overdramatic at times, but this is without a doubt the _worst_ thing that’s ever happened to him.  “Can we pretend I _didn’t_ just piss myself?” he pleads with her desperately.  “I would really appreciate it if we could do that.”

Before she can answer, Jackson walks by, a nasty smirk permanently etched into his stupidly perfect face.  “Good look, Stilinski,” he crows, giving Stiles the up-and-down.  “Too bad we didn’t get to see your bladder explode!”

Lydia shakes her head as they watch Jackson saunter away with the confidence of someone whose loss of control ends in murder, not wet pants.  Stiles isn’t sure what he expected her to say, but he’s caught off-guard when she tells him matter-of-factly, “Bladders don’t actually explode.”

Stiles blinks at her.  “What?”

“Bladders don’t explode,” she repeats, shrugging.  “It’s impossible.  The tissue doesn’t work like that…your bladder will void long before it ever explodes.  In fact, studies have shown that any cases of ruptured bladders weren’t actually caused by holding urine too long, but were punctured by sharp objects instead.  Or just general injury.”

“Fascinating,” Stiles murmurs for the lack of anything better to say.  “Are you, like, an encyclopedia or something?  An expert on the excretory system?”

“No,” Lydia says simply.  Then she gives him a small smile that makes his stomach flip in spite of it all.  “I’m just saying, since your bladder can’t explode, it had to void so you wouldn’t be seriously injured.  It did exactly what it was supposed to.”

That’s when Stiles figures it out.  She’s trying to make him _feel better_.  She’s trying to tell him that it’s okay and that she knows he couldn’t help it.  Just realizing it is enough to snap Stiles out of his funk and get his body vibrating with energy again.  Because her tactics might leave much to be desired, but Lydia _cares_ about him.  And nothing – not even wet pants – can take away from that.

They’re still really annoying, though.

As if she can read his mind, Lydia reaches into her bag and pulls out a crumbled piece of fabric.  “A functioning bladder is all well and good,” she says, somehow managing to keep a straight face, “but I still figured you could do with these.”

She tosses the fabric at him and when he snatches it out of the air, he sees that it’s a pair of gym shorts.  They’re faded and wrinkly, but to Stiles they look like they’re spun from pure gold.  “Thanks so much!” he cries, eternally grateful and hugely relieved.  “All mine are at home.”

“No problem.”  Lydia waves away his gratitude, but not unkindly.  “They’re Jackson’s.”

Not even that can dissuade him.  Feeling one hundred percent better about life, Stiles turns back to the bathroom, more than ready to change out of his gross clothes.  But before he can grab the doorknob, Lydia puts a small, graceful hand on his arm, making him go stock-still.  “Yeah?” he almost squeaks.

“They’re Jackson’s,” she repeats, something odd shining in her eyes.  “So do me a favor?”

“Anything!”

“Piss in them,” she says, a slow smile tugging across her face, and all at once Stiles realizes what he’s seeing.  He’s seeing vengeance.  And it’s _beautiful._

“You got it,” he agrees, finally shoving his way into the bathroom, cackling at the top of his lungs.


End file.
